Dig for Fire
by goingforthegoldcontest
Summary: Bella is a former Olympic gymnast volunteering at the London 2012 Games. When she is thrown into the unfamiliar world of men's volleyball, working with hot Polish player Edward reawakens the passion inside her.


Contest: Going for the Gold Anonymous Twi-Fic Contest

Title: Dig For Fire Pairing: Edward and Bella

Olympic Sport: Men's Volleyball Rating: M Word Count (minus A/n and header): 14933

Summary (250 characters or less, including spaces and punctuation): Bella is a former Olympic gymnast volunteering at the London 2012 Games. When she is thrown into the unfamiliar world of men's volleyball, working with hot Polish player Edward reawakens the passion inside her.

Warnings and Disclaimer: Rated M for language and lemons. Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and its characters, though the plot and original details are my own.

A/N: Thank you to my amazing betas for all their hard work!

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(BPOV)

I was mesmerised as I watched the tiny Russian gymnast finish her floor routine, the sparkles on her red leotard glinting in the bright lights of the stadium. She took a run up and cartwheeled once, twice, before finally launching into the air in a high flip, then landing perfectly with her feet neatly together, in a double piked Arabian. My mind couldn't help supplying all the names for moves that had once been so familiar to me. She held a pose with her arms out, signifying the end of her almost flawless routine, and smiled as the admiring crowd erupted with wild cheers and applause.

The US team was up next, and I braced myself, knowing this would be the most difficult part of the day for me.

Angela Weber, their current medal hope and my old classmate, took the floor to dramatic music. I smiled from the sidelines, in case she looked over, but she didn't. She started out confidently, with a series of tumbles, then went tumbling across the floor in a fantastic triple twist.

That could have been me. Watching as the judges' marks were announced, waiting to see if it was enough to get me through the qualifying round. Accepting congratulations from my coach and my team, when it inevitably was. The rush of pride when my hard work had paid off. I knew I was dreaming of what could have been ... and it wasn't good for me. I reluctantly pulled myself back into the present.

The event had ended and the volunteer coordinator, Paul, was debriefing us.

"Good work today, everyone. Colin's team, Annette's team ... you're all on gymnastics again tomorrow, as planned. Jessica Stanley, Isabella Swan, I need you two on volleyball, please."

"What — beach volleyball?" Jessica said with a snort.

"No, the regular indoor kind," Paul clarified. "They're a couple of people short. Get yourself to Earls Court by 8:30 a.m. tomorrow morning, please ... here's the details." Paul handed us some information, turning away before I got a chance to argue.

I'd never watched volleyball and had only briefly played it at school back in the US. That was years ago, and I'd never got my head around all the rules, anyway. I'd specially requested to work in Gymnastics. It was my therapist's idea, and that was what I knew. It hadn't been easy to arrange the time off work to come here to London.

Why did they have to move me now? I'd been volunteering for two days and was just getting familiar with the venue and my duties. I glanced at the flyer. It had travel details of how to get to the venue by public transport and match schedules: the days alternated between the men's and women's matches, with men tomorrow, starting off with Poland v Italy. The six matches were scheduled to run from 9:30 a.m. until 11:30 p.m. There was a rotation though, so I'd only be working for the first half of the day.

I tried to put my irritation aside; I'd have to make the best of it. Besides, I wasn't sure could face watching anymore Gymnastics just yet. Maybe a few days of something different would be a welcome relief, despite what my shrink said.

I set my alarm early, though oversleeping wasn't much of a risk. Getting up was easier when I only had to say goodbye to my sleeping bag and camping mat instead of a cosy, warm bed. Some of the other volunteers, or 'Games Makers' as the organising committee called us, were staying in local bed and breakfasts or with friends, but I'd chosen to stay at a camp-site. This one was on the grass pitch of a local rugby club. It was cheap, and nice and central, so it cut out part of the hassle getting in every morning. Olympic season meant that London was teeming with people — even more so than usual — so a few less changes on the underground made all the difference. Though my journey was going to be longer now that they'd switched my allocated sport.

I always seemed to get friendly smiles from the other passengers, when I travelled on the Tube in my volunteer's uniform. I was getting to like the red and purple polo shirt with its Olympics 2012 branding ... even the matching baseball cap, though I was less taken with the beige trousers and standard-issue grey socks — not exactly stylish.

There were already lots of people on the Tube and on the streets, but I'd seen worse. I got to the venue without any problems. There was no mistaking that this was the right place – the name Earls Court was emblazoned on the imposing, white concrete building in red letters. This and the steps leading up to the entrances reminded me of an old-fashioned movie theatre, except it was much larger. There were 'Home to Olympic volleyball' posters on either side of the building and the same words were plastered across the curving façade that jutted out over the steps.

I checked my instructions and found the staff entrance, round the side of the building. I was ushered into a large room where twenty or so other volunteers were already gathered in a sea of purple and red uniforms. I recognised Jess in one group, gathered around a blond man in his late thirties with a clipboard. He beckoned me over.

"Ah, you must be Isabella. I'm Carlisle." He shook my hand and smiled, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up. "Isabella and Jessica, could you stay? Everyone else, thanks, that's all for now," he said, and they left. "I'm assuming you two are new to volleyball?" Carlisle asked.

Jess and I both nodded.

"Okay, I'll try to explain some of the basic rules," Carlisle said to us. "There are six players per team on court at a time. Points are won by landing the ball within the boundaries on the opposition's side of the net and the first team to reach 25 points wins the set … it's the best of five sets."

I did my best to listen, but a lot of the details went over my head; there must be so many rules if this was the short version.

"Players normally use their hands for control, but they can use any part of their body to hit the ball after the serve. A team can touch the ball a maximum of three times, plus a legal block before they have to return it over the net ..."

I hoped the game would make more sense when I was actually watching it.

"... but since we don't have time to go into more detail right now, please ask Mike Newton if you have any questions; he knows the game well," Carlisle said, indicating a blond volunteer standing nearby who gave us a smile and a wave. "Your main responsibilities today will be to provide general help and assistance to the athletes and officials during the match, though you will each be assigned to a particular player to take care of his needs when he isn't in play. So, I have two names left in the hat, then we can introduce you." He held up an Olympic branded baseball cap and picked out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Jess, then gave another one to me.

I unfolded it. I'd got the number 3 on the Polish team. He had a long surname beginning with a C.

After we'd been issued our kit — bottles of water, energy drinks, and towels — Carlisle showed our group out into an area holding the Polish volleyball team and their staff. He spoke a little to their short, grey-haired coach, who already seemed to know Carlisle, then started introducing players to their volunteers.

"Michał Jankowski, this is your helper for the day: Jessica. If you have any problems, find Jessica."

Jess shook hands with Jankowski.

"And finally, Edward Cullenski, meet Isabella," Carlisle said. I was still watching Jess and saw her double-take with a jealous stare in my direction. When I turned to face him, I could see why.

The sinfully attractive Edward took my hand and said, "Pleased to meet you, Isabella," in a strong Polish accent. He sounded friendly enough, though he wasn't smiling. Maybe he was nervous, thinking about the match.

"Please, call me Bella," I said, feeling a blush creeping across my cheeks. I recovered myself and added, "Pleased to meet you too, Edward."

He was so tall that I had to look up to talk to him. He had piercing, moss-green eyes framed by enviably long lashes. I didn't realise they'd all be basketball-player height. Edward must've been at least six foot five, towering about a foot over my tiny frame. My eyes lingered for a moment on his shock of dishevelled hair, its colour hard to put my finger on: dirty blonde perhaps, with hints of red when it caught the light. A zipped-up red polyester jacket with white trim covered his torso, and below that, he wore small red shorts that showed off his long, muscular legs. He was lean, and a little lanky looking because of the height, though clearly athletic.

"Can you take?" he asked in slightly faltering English, holding out the red jacket which he'd now taken off, meaning that my intentions to feign professionalism had waited while I admired the way the tight red jersey creased and stretched over the shape of his torso, hinting at the broad chest and defined upper arms that lay beneath. Part of a black tribal-style tattoo peeked out from his right sleeve. I wondered if he had tattoos anywhere else.

I thought I saw his mouth curl up marginally at the corners, and I whipped my eyes away, awkwardly looking down at my feet instead, hoping he hadn't noticed me blatantly trying to check out his body. I was probably drooling.

"Of course." I looked back to take the jacket from him, noticing the athletic tape wrapped around some of his long fingers like white bandages. "Let me know if there's anything else you need." _Anything at all._

"Thank you."

Carlisle led us out of the room, leaving the players to prepare. He took us through an archway, towards the arena. Inside, the venue staff were making final preparations for the match to start. The seats were filled to capacity and there was already an excited atmosphere building. The majority of the audience seemed to be Polish supporters, with red and white national flags and painted banners hung almost all the way around on the front rows of the arena, and more red and white in the crowd — with only the occasional Italian flag. Rock music was pumping out through the speakers around the arena; I recognised the unmistakeable guitar riff as The White Stripes' Seven Nation Army. On court, there were cheerleaders just completing their routine then left to stand behind the barriers to the side of the court.

The music was lowered, and the announcer called out over the sound system, "Please welcome the men's national volleyball teams of Italy and Poland!" A roar went up from the crowd, as both teams entered from one corner of the arena. Each team of ten or so men walked onto the court and lined up on either side of the net. They stood there, waving and turning to soak up the applause of the crowd from all directions.

I focussed in on the Polish team, and watched as they went briefly into a huddle, hugging each other. I couldn't help but appreciate Cullenski's toned ass in his little red shorts, as he bent slightly into the huddle. Maybe I could find a way to enjoy watching volleyball after all. They moved apart and began high-fiving each other, getting themselves pumped up to play. After this, they walked along the net to shake hands with each opposing player.

Once the greetings were done, I noticed Edward bend down and place his palm down on the floor for a few seconds. He paused there, crouching, gazing off thoughtfully into the distance. I wondered whether this was some sort of superstition. I'd seen the same sort of thing with other girls when I was a gymnast: certain things they'd always wear or do for luck before a competition.

Both teams started warming up, jumping up and down or doing stretches. Then several volleyballs were thrown out for them to begin some practice drills: digs, serves and passes.

Edward was in the starting six for the Polish team. All were around the same superhuman height as Edward, except one who was noticeably shorter (probably just under six foot), and wearing white kit with red writing on it, which was reversed colours from the rest. I asked Mike why, and he told me that he was the Libero, a specialist defensive position on the team.

"That's the team Captain, Emmett Nowak —" he said, indicating the hulking, dimpled guy to the right of Edward, "— and that one over there's Jasper Halek." The latter had golden, wavy hair, blue eyes and some serious cheekbones. The Polish team was pretty blessed in the looks department. Still, I felt a strange magnetism about Edward that drew me to him, above all the others.

The match began with the navy-blue clad Italian side serving, but after some play back and forth, Edward's teammate, Emmett, took his chance to smash the ball down over the net and win the point.

During play, the ball went so high in the air — as the tall players sprang up to hit it — and moved so fast, that it was hard to keep track of it. After a little while, I could follow the points some of the time, glancing at the electronic scoreboard to confirm who'd scored, and learning why the referee's whistle was blown, asking Mike when I was unsure. Despite finding the fast pace confusing, the game was invigorating and exciting to watch. In contrast to soccer, say, there were constantly points being won and players were kept on their toes, needing all six to work together as a unit all the time. I admired how each and every point seemed to count, like when Jasper ran to the edge of the court, knocking down a barrier in a desperate effort to keep the ball in the air, totally focussed on his task and oblivious to the nervous photographers ducking down out of his way, clutching their expensive long-lens cameras.

Now it was Edward's turn to serve. He held the yellow and blue volleyball in his left hand, with his arm stretched out in front of him. He quietly contemplated the ball for a few seconds as he spun it slightly in his fingers, before tossing it high into the air, stepping forward and leaping up to hit it at its peak with his right hand. It was an ace, hitting a space on the court in between several Italian players who were unable to return it. Team Poland did their customary celebration of a group hug with added high-fives and shoulder pats.

Winning the point meant that Edward served again. I hardly even knew the game, but his serve seemed like an art-form to me, so measured and controlled. This time, the ball continued play in a rally back and forth over the net, the majority of the crowd getting whipped up with excitement, clapping and calling something out in Polish each time their side passed the ball — counting, perhaps — in a common sequence of three moves (called 'dig, set, spike', Mike had explained) ending with Jankowski finally smashing it down over the net and winning the point for Poland.

Edward was a vital member of the team. His role seemed to be mostly defensive, often forming part of the wall of three Polish players with arms outstretched, blocking the ball at the net. But he could spike the ball aggressively to win a point when he got the chance.

The teams seemed closely matched in the first set, only separated by a few points, with Italy winning it in the end. But the loss seemed to spark Poland's determination, and they upped their game, taking the lead. Now they were two sets ahead, and just points away from winning the match. The whistle blew as their coach called a technical time-out. Edward and the rest of the towering Polish players were heading towards us on the sidelines. Until now, Edward had seemed entirely focussed on the match. I'd barely seen him smile, even when his team celebrated a point, not that he would have noticed me even then — so I was amazed to see him looking in my direction with a knowing smirk and a wink as he approached.

That got me all hot and bothered … and I wasn't sure if he was just teasing after seeing how I'd been objectifying his body earlier. Could he really blame me? If anything, he looked even sexier now than he had then, despite the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and making his jersey stick to his torso.

At least it didn't seem as if anyone else had noticed us. He took the towel I was holding out, wiped his face, then ran it over his head, which did nothing to help the chaotic state of his hair; though it looked strangely good on him. He took the water bottle I'd handed him, slung the towel over one shoulder without saying anything to me and joined his teammates. They were gathered round their grey-haired Coach, who was talking tactics animatedly in heavily accented English — he must not have been Polish. It only lasted a minute or two, then they reached into the centre to all touch hands in a gesture of unity. They shouted out something all together as they parted, testosterone raging, hyped up to finish the battle.

The crowd was chanting 'Polska' in between a pattern of handclaps, as the team came back on court. There was a faint sound of booing as the Italian team served, and silence when they won the point. Still, Poland only needed three more to win. The Italians were fighting back, and took another point, but Poland stood firm and went all out to secure the next two points. It was match point: Poland served. When the ball came back to them, Edward dug it from the back of the court, sending it up towards Jasper, who set it for Emmett with enough height for him to spike it down hard, winning the point — and the match, to a great roar from the crowd!

Instantly, Edward and the other Poles raised their arms in the air, whooping in jubilation at their win. They moved in to congratulate each other, and I was pleased to see Edward finally displaying his emotions. He was unable to contain his joy, grinning widely, jumping up and down, and backslapping his teammates. The rest of the Polish team and the coach ran onto the court to join in with the celebrations.

I wished I could go over to congratulate Edward, as both he and Team Poland had really impressed me, but I could see how stupid that would make me look — I was just a volunteer — so my feet stayed firmly rooted to the spot. However, moments later, Edward caught my eye, and started to walk in my direction, unnoticed by his distracted team.

I gave him a slightly shy smile and he grinned back down at me.

"So, what do you think of us now, eh? We played good?" he said, in his lilting accent. He gently touched my shoulder and a jolt of electricity passed through my body at his unexpected touch.

"Yes, you were great! Congratulations on the win!" I said.

"_Dziękuję_, Bella."

I gave him a quizzical look, not understanding the word … but liking how pretty it sounded, coming from his oh-so-kissable pink lips.

"Thank you, I mean. Sorry, my English is not good," he said.

"No, don't apologise, your English is fine. Anyway, my Polish is non-existent!"

We both laughed, but I wasn't sure what to say next. Edward gave me a polite nod, and left to rejoin the team. He walked with them round the edges of the arena to sign some autographs for the ecstatic Polish crowd. A couple of the women had a banner with 'Cullenski' painted on it. They had Polish flags painted on their cheeks, and their hair was in bunches. They screamed as he approached. A faint hint of jealousy bubbled in my chest, but I saw that his eyes were down, concentrating on the paper they held out for him to sign, only glancing at them quickly, and moving on to the next group straight away.

I wondered if the team would be having a big celebration tonight, or whether it was too early in the tournament for that. Perhaps they had to remain focussed and start preparing for the next match. I looked down at my schedule; I wouldn't get to see another Polish match for four days now. I couldn't wait.

One of the perks of being a volunteer was that I could use a local gym just outside the Olympic Village for free. Some of the athletes had access to it as well, but as a recreational facility rather than for their training. There were specialised, limited-access locations for that, of course. I'd never much liked working out (not since I'd left my sport anyway) but I still enjoyed swimming. Today I wasn't working until the afternoon, so I had planned a few lengths in the pool to wake myself up.

I got changed into my black bikini and stuffed my things into a locker. I could smell the chlorine as I slipped into the luke-warm water at the shallow end. It was early, so it was relatively quiet; only a few others were swimming. I swam a couple lengths in the pool. As I swam steadily back towards the shallow end, my eyes were drawn to a somehow familiar-looking figure standing poolside. It was a guy, chugging from his water bottle; needing a drink at the swimming pool had always seemed odd to me somehow. His longish hair was wet and slicked back on his head.

I made it back to the shallow end and crossed my arms in front of me to lean on the side. The guy turned slightly. Wait … that tattoo on his arm, the mile-long, toned legs … it was Edward. Only, I hadn't recognised him at first, now he was out of his red and white volleyball kit. He was barely wearing anything, in fact. Just small black swimming trunks. I was seeing more of his flesh than I'd ever imagined I'd get to see. And, damn, he was hot.

My eyes lingered hungrily on his glorious, lean physique, droplets of water glistening on his lightly tanned skin. I couldn't help but imagine what laid under his jersey as I'd watched him play yesterday, and the reality certainly didn't disappoint now: broad, masculine shoulders, defined pecs and a gently sculpted abdomen with just a sprinkling of hair below it, in a trail descending down beneath the waistband of his black swimming trunks. Those were wet, clinging teasingly to his shape.

I watched, still spellbound, as he brought the water to his mouth again, the muscles rippling in his thick arm. That intricate, spiky tribal tattoo hugged the curved planes of his right bicep and shoulder, and the veins were just visible under the skin of his arms.

I was still staring when I became aware of those sparkling green eyes meeting my gaze. Shit, I'm making quite a habit of this now. Does he realise what he's doing to me?

I looked away, embarrassed, but not before I'd noticed that he was beating me at my own game, looking me up and down in an appreciative leer. I felt suddenly indecent in the halter-neck black bikini, and wondered how much he could see from where he was standing.

He put his drink down and started walking towards me with another of those dirty smirks on his face; they ought to be illegal.

"Hi Bella," he said, slipping into the water beside me. "Hope you don't mind if I join you ... I didn't expect to see you here." He gave me a cheeky, crooked grin. "Nice bikini."

"Um, thanks," I managed, thinking, _nice body_.

I couldn't believe he was being so friendly and flirty. That he was interested in me.

We swam together for a bit, but didn't talk any more — that language barrier again. After a while, he playfully splashed me, eliciting a surprised shriek out from me, and then swam off. I tried to swim after him, but I couldn't keep up with his strong front crawl using my pitiful breast stroke, and he looked back over his shoulder, laughing at me. Maybe it was a little cruel of him, but it broke the ice without needing any words, and we were soon relaxing and enjoying each other's company.

After we'd got out of the pool and changed, we swapped numbers and tried to meet up every day or two. It was never for very long, since he was busy with training and matches, but we talked each time and were getting to know one another. He even invited me to tag along with some of the team on a London sightseeing trip. The players were dressed in their red and white Polish training gear; I suppose to make them feel united even when they were doing something other than practising.

One of the guys on the team took lots of photos as we wandered past the gates of Buckingham Palace to watch the Changing of the Guard: the ceremonial swapping over of shifts by soldiers at the sentry boxes. The new regiment slowly marched in, armed with symbolic rifles, wearing their traditional uniforms of scarlet jackets with silver buttons down them, black trousers and tall black bearskin hats. It was all very regimented and quaint.

After taking in a few other tourist attractions, we stopped for lunch. It was sunny, so we bought some burgers from a fast food chain and sat to eat them in front of a fountain in Trafalgar Square, surrounded by statues, including the tallest one, Nelson's Column. There was a big screen set up, showing some of the athletics, so we watched a bit as we ate.

All day, Emmett and Jasper had been constantly messing about and joking. Edward just rolled his eyes at me as he explained whatever the latest joke was and tried to translate their Polish. Sometimes the jokes didn't seem to translate all that well. It was good fun, though. I hadn't laughed this much in a long time. At one point, walking away from the Square, we came across three London policemen, in their uniforms of black trousers with luminous yellow flak jackets, with reflective strips on them and 'Police' markings. They were wearing those black, rounded helmets with the Metropolitan Police logo on them in silver. Of course, Emmett had the idea to ask them for a photo! The policemen were pretty good-natured, amused to see these Polish Olympic tourists enjoying visiting London, and agreed to loan Emmett, Jasper and a reluctant Edward their helmets so they could cosy up and pose for a photo, all six of them. I couldn't stop laughing, seeing how the volleyball players dwarfed the uniformed officers.

As we were parting ways after the day trip, Edward invited me out.

"Bella, I would like to see you tonight," he said. "Will you have dinner with me?"

"Yes, I'd really like that," I replied, without hesitation.

Edward booked us a table at an Italian restaurant for that evening. He arranged to meet me by text, coming to pick me up from the campsite so that we could get the Tube together into central London. I hoped it wasn't somewhere too expensive and crowded, but I trusted his judgement.

We got in line to get through the barriers at the station, swiping the free Oyster Card travel passes we'd been issued. I watched, amused, as Edward unfolded a Tube map from his pocket and traced a route with his fingers, then went up to the board listing the stations on our line to check which direction we needed. I'd already figured it out but didn't say anything — seeing him concentrating so hard was fun.

"Is it your first time on the Tube?" I asked.

"Yes, we have Metro in Warsaw, where I am from, but it only has one line. London has so many."

We got to the right platform through the tunnels, and after waiting for a few minutes, a breeze and a faint noise indicated the train was coming. We boarded one of the packed compartments just before the doors closed, Edward having to duck his head even after we'd squeezed in and found a spot to stand. After riding for a few stops, we changed onto another line to get to our destination, Waterloo.

It was pretty busy there, even now that it was dark. From where we stood, we could see the floodlit Houses of Parliament across the Thames, its spires and Big Ben clock tower looking majestic, glowing golden against the night sky, the mass of light reflected in the river. After pausing to take it all in, we moved on, and Edward led me down a backstreet to the restaurant. It looked unremarkable from the outside; I probably would've walked right by it if I'd been looking for a spot to eat. But once inside, it was charming and traditional — just simple, without any of that tacky fake Italian paraphernalia on the walls. It was surprisingly quiet inside, given the central London location. There weren't many other people there, so a waiter appeared to greet us straight away; he was obviously Italian and very welcoming. He seated us at a candle-lit table and took our drinks orders, leaving us to look over the menus.

He appeared with my glass of white wine and Edward's Coke. "Are you ready to order?"

"Yes, I think so," Edward answered and motioned for to me to go first.

"I'll have the seafood risotto, please," I said.

"And for me: spicy meatball calzone with a side salad and garlic bread. Thank you."

One of those calzones alone is normally too much for me, he must really be starving.

"What? I'm burning it all off in training every day!" Edward said, putting his hands up in mock defensiveness, as if he'd read my mind.

Once the food arrived, we ate in contented silence for several minutes.

"What's Polish food like, then?" I asked.

"Well, we have some tasty, warming dishes like … stews, with meat and vegetables. Though actually Italian food is pretty popular there … and we have Polish speciality, pierogi, that is a little like a filled pasta, or how you say ... dumplings."

"Sounds nice," I said, taking another bite of my food.

"How is your meal?"

"It's lovely, thanks. How's yours?"

"Totally delicious." His smile was infectious. "Want to taste some?" He cut a piece, then held out the fork.

"Yes, please," I said, welcoming the intimacy of the gesture.

He moved the fork up to my mouth, his green eyes fixated on my lips as I closed them around the offered food. I ate it slowly, savouring the flavours on my tongue, then swallowed.

"Good, right?" he enquired, still watching me.

"Mmm … very," I replied.

I fed him a mouthful of my risotto in return, watching his tongue dart out between his soft lips to chase a stray bit of rice.

The atmosphere between us remained charged for the rest of the meal, but the conversation was easy and relaxed. We discussed where we both came from and our backgrounds. I told him about my office job, not that there was much to tell. I learned that he was 27 — five years older than me. I told him I was from Washington State, and a bit about my hometown, Forks. He talked about Warsaw, also about his sport.

"Volleyball is very popular in Poland. It is second biggest sport after football. Especially now, with the Olympics … the media think that we will definitely win medals. I don't know though. We won the Gold in Volleyball World League, only last month, so they are sure we can do it again. It depends on other teams. It is not always this simple."

That must be hard, trying to live up to such high hopes.

"So are you all celebrities at home?" I said, thinking of the autograph-seeking girls with their 'Cullenski' banner.

"Yeah, I guess … we are well-known, we get recognised in the street … and they call us national heroes." He shuffled in his seat, not making eye contact. He was obviously reluctant to be labelled as a hero. Maybe he felt they didn't deserve it yet. He seemed surprisingly grounded, though. "But I just want to focus on every match as it comes. It's an honour to play for my country, of course, but first for me is love of the game."

"How did you first start playing?"

"My father played professional volleyball. I enjoyed sport at school, but I didn't want to be like him —" he looked up and gave a little smile "— so I tried a few other sports: football, basketball because I was high … no, tall, I mean. But I didn't enjoy these so much. When I tried volleyball, I fell in love with the sport … there's nothing else like it." He paused for a minute, trying to find the right words to express it, but his genuine excitement and enthusiasm for the subject was clear; his body language was less reserved than normal and a smile danced on his lips. "When I go onto the field … I feel that this is where I belong. I think it is team spirit that makes it such a great sport, and the power, the speed … volleyball is beautiful to watch and to play. It became my passion and my life, and now I am lucky enough that it is my job."

I admired his real passion for volleyball, and it made mine for him grow stronger. It was like he was showing me a part of myself that I'd lost. The ability I'd had to put all of myself into one thing, to battle hard for what I believed in and wanted so badly. That one thing had been gymnastics for me, but a hole had remained in my chest since that had been taken from me. It was a hole that I couldn't fill, or hadn't tried to. Now? Well, I was happy for it to be him, while I had him. Maybe after that I'd be strong enough to get back on my own two feet and discover some new passion, and find that there could be more to life than a mundane office job.

Our desserts of tiramisu and profiteroles came, and we talked some more.

"What did you move to UK for, Bella?"

"Well … I moved here a few years ago to study, and I live in Oxford now." True, studying was part of the reason I'd come here, though there was a bit more to it than just that. I didn't want to talk about it right now. More because telling him would bring the mood down than not feeling able to. I didn't know him that well yet, but I definitely felt that I could trust him. There was a bond developing between us, drawing us together. I suppose the limited time we had left — my heart ached remembering that it was barely more than a week now — meant that our time together was more precious and things were moving faster by necessity.

Edward insisted on paying the bill, then escorted me back to the campsite and wished me goodnight. He was about to leave then, but I grabbed his hand and did what I had been desperate to do all night: I kissed him. The first kiss was only an awkward peck on the lips, as I had to get onto my tiptoes and pretty much yank his head down to my level. I let him go and he straightened out again, giving me a surprised look that turned into a happy grin, then scooped me up easily into his strong arms. I could feel the heat radiating from his body and his breath on me as he brought his face closer, then pushed his lips onto mine. They were soft and inviting. We kissed again, this time slowly and tenderly, making me tingle all over.

I couldn't exactly ask him back to my tent, and Edward seemed too gentlemanly to suggest it, so once he'd put me down that was goodnight.

After another couple of days, I'd watched a number of volleyball matches, not always managing to see Poland play, depending on my day's rotation. I was fitting in well and starting to pick up the rules too. Carlisle organised, with my consent, for me to stay with volleyball instead of moving back to Gymnastics.

I didn't care anymore what my shrink had told me, I was moving on in my own way … through whatever this thing with Edward was and by getting caught up in a new sport, volleyball. My heart had been so delicate that I'd wrapped it up in bandages years ago and been scared to let anyone and anything penetrate it ever since. Opening myself up to new passions might mend my battered heart and heal me, even more effectively than facing up to painful memories was supposed to.

I tried not to think about how I'd feel once the inevitable came and the Olympics had ended. I was enjoying it while it lasted, living for the now. Just being able to do that, to let myself be moved by a sport again — and the man who played it — was progress for me.

Carlisle listened to my complaints that the campsite was inconvenient to travel from every morning and found me a space in a shared dormitory closer to Earls Court. It was normally a youth hostel, but for the moment, it had been taken over unofficially by Olympic volunteers. It was hardly luxurious, but a bunk bed was a step up from camping. I'd have access to indoor showers and toilets, and if the unpredictable British weather turned bad, I'd be warm and dry.

Edward had to get me a special pass to get into the Olympic Village, where he was staying, as most of the athletes did. Even then, there was airport-style security to get through; they checked our ID and searched my bag, then we both had to walk through a metal detector. I was excited that I was getting the chance to see inside of the Village for myself.

Once we'd got in, Edward led the way, talking as we walked. He was telling me how great the 24-hour food court was, but it was difficult for me to focus fully on what he was saying, distracted by the closeness of his body to mine, and how good he looked in his casual clothes: dark-wash jeans and a black, V-necked T shirt that emphasised the contours of his defined chest.

We walked past some of the purpose-built apartment blocks. The buildings themselves were all very grey, but there were splashes of colour and individuality from the various international flags that the occupants had draped from the windows and balconies; there were larger-than-life mascots too — like the red model moose in front of the Canadian block. There were grassy spaces between the buildings, dotted with trees and sports related sculptures. The newly built streets had cheesy names thought up by the organising committee, like 'Victory Way' and 'Celebration Alley'.

The Village was buzzing with hundreds of athletes, mostly dressed in their kit or training gear. Some were purposefully walking from one place to the next, but others were more relaxed, sitting on the grass, enjoying the afternoon sun in small groups. As we passed them, I heard multiple different languages spoken. There was almost a party atmosphere, so much youth, energy and positivity, as if we were at a holiday resort where the average age was twenty-something. I guessed everyone felt privileged to be here, and knew that this extraordinary combination of nationalities and talents wouldn't be gathered in a single place again for another four years, if ever.

Just like in a real village, there was a bank, shops and post office — even a hairdressers and a pub. Though on our route through, we also passed a fake 'beach': a square patch of sand with deckchairs and parasols. Overall, the place had a surreal atmosphere, from the knowledge that the place would stay in its current state for a few weeks only. The time spent planning and building dwarfed its intended lifetime. Some of the buildings would be re-purposed, of course, into affordable housing or office blocks, but the fleeting Olympic Village would soon be unrecognisable.

Edward and I were meeting up with some of his teammates at the pub, if you could call it that — all they served were free soft drinks. Bizarrely, the fridges behind the bar only seemed to contain Coke cans and Powerade bottles, it must have been a sponsorship thing. But there was a good atmosphere despite the alcohol ban. The bar was packed full of athletes relaxing and talking in so many different languages. Over on the other side from the bar was a games room containing pool and foosball tables. Most of these were occupied; I recognised one or two of the faces as well-known members of the Jamaican track team.

We spotted three of Edward's teammates, plus one blonde girl, standing in the lounge area and made our way over to them. I felt ridiculously tiny standing beside the four gigantic men and the rather tall blonde. Edward put his arm around my shoulders protectively, and started introducing me to them. There was Jasper Halek, who I remembered but hadn't spoken to yet, and Michał Jankowski, the guy Jess had been assigned to look after. Michał seemed sweet, but even quieter than Edward.

"This is Emmett Nowak," Edward said, gesturing towards the tall team Captain, who was dressed down in jeans and a grey short-sleeved shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and thick biceps.

Emmett shook my hand enthusiastically.

"Good to meet you, Bella." His accent was a weird mixture: Polish like Edward's but with a hint of American. Maybe he'd learned English in the USA.

"And finally, Emmett's girlfriend, Rosalie." This was the pretty blonde standing next to Emmett. "She is on Polish women's volleyball team." How cute, a volleyball couple! That would explain her height, then. She had a short skirt on, showing off her enviable long legs, and was almost Emmett's height in her flat shoes. Rosalie also shook my hand, smiling.

"Edward has been telling us so much about you," she said.

"All good things, I hope," I said, a little embarrassed to hear it.

"Of course!" she replied.

But Emmett turned and said something in Polish to Edward, and I looked up to Edward, questioningly.

He smiled. "Emmett says I have done well to find nice American girl."

I laughed, looking from him to Emmett, not knowing what to say.

We sat on three of the brown leather sofas, which were arranged around a Persian rug, with some wooden bookshelves completing the square.

The others mostly tried to speak English for my benefit, except when they couldn't think of the right words. I appreciated that they were trying to make me feel welcome, and was glad that it seemed that they'd given me their seal of approval.

Emmett and Jasper in particular seemed like really good guys — always joking around and making Edward laugh. They might be good for him; he had a tendency towards over-seriousness when he was on his own. It was nice seeing him letting his hair down and having a good laugh in their company. I noticed they called him Edek sometimes, and when I asked, Jasper explained that this was the diminutive form of Edward's name. It was cute that they were all close enough to have this nickname for him.

After a little while we got tired of the lack of alcohol and decided to decamp to the team's apartment, where they had their own copious supply of Tyskie beer. All of his team were staying in the same block. There was a small, shared lounge: mostly empty, apart from a large TV, lime green sofa and matching chairs.

Edward insisted he wasn't drinking at all at first, but the others talked him into a few beers, since they weren't playing again until the day after tomorrow. I knew I was only working the afternoon session tomorrow, however, so I wasn't too worried.

I was soon floaty-happy, still aware of everything going on, but less self-conscious. This meant I could get more hands on with Edward even with the others around, running my hands through his hair as I sat in his lap on the lounge chair. Rosalie was similarly wrapped around Emmett on the sofa. The others lapsed more back into Polish the more they drank, and I listened to the sounds of their words. It was definitely prettiest in Edward's musical, soft tones, I decided.

Edward wasn't drinking as much as me, but his happiness from their win today seemed to make the alcohol go further. He was relaxed and cheerful, smiling and laughing more than I'd seen him do before. He was also slightly more talkative — maybe he'd stopped worrying so much about his poor English, or perhaps he just felt more at ease in my presence than he had before.

Eventually, the others excused themselves to go to bed, leaving us alone. Earlier on, Edward had asked about my living arrangements, and I'd told him it was a shared dorm with bunk-beds. Edward got it into his head that we should go back to mine, and the idea had sounded strangely good to me, so I agreed.

We were both giggling loudly as we entered the dorm building, but I raised my finger to my lips to shush him before we got to the corridor with my bedroom, my last remaining logic telling me that we didn't want to be discovered ... as that would ruin our fun.

We crept in, using over-exaggerated tiptoe movements like cartoon burglars. He stayed behind me, his right hand over my mouth, ready to muffle my giggles — which threatened to return at any moment — and his left hand on my shoulder to steady me, as I was a little wobbly on my feet. Luckily, I was wearing flats.

We somehow made it safely to the dorm room. The lights were already off — thankfully, my three female roommates were clearly more sensible than me and were trying to get an early night. We slipped off our shoes, then Edward unlocked his cell phone screen to give us a faint light so that we could see to get up the bunk bed ladder. My bunk was the top one of the bed nearest the door; there was a second bunk bed at the back of the room. I climbed up the ladder first and he followed. It was a single bed, so it would be a little squashed with both of us in it, but I'd shared one before on many occasions with my boyfriend back when I was at college. Just with a few minor differences, of course: the boy had not been as ridiculously tall as Edward (not to mention an Olympic athlete), it hadn't been a top bunk, and there hadn't been anyone else in the room at the same time …

I felt as if I was sobering up slightly, since I was beginning to fear the consequences. But my lust for Edward still outweighed the risk-factor. I couldn't even see him right now — it was enough that I could feel his body heat, and smell his musky, masculine scent.

I reached for his T-shirt and pulled it off, wanting to acquaint myself with his body. I placed my hands on his body, feeling his taut pecs and abs and trying to picture them.

Edward undid his belt and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans, then pulled my top off. He bent down and kissed my neck, saying, "This is so hot!" He undid the clasp of my bra and removed it as he spoke. Then his warm breath was in my ear as he whispered in warning. "Three other girls are in the room with us. You'd better be quiet ... so they don't hear."

I was all too aware of this, but for some reason hearing him say it turned me on like crazy.

His hands went to my breasts, exploring them with a firm touch. He whispered, "My God, your tits are perfect … lovely. Just the right size. So sexy." It occurred to me that the language barrier seemed less noticeable right now; he was clearly fluent in dirty talk.

I let out a whimper of need as he played with my erect, sensitive nipples, so he put a hand over my mouth, saying, "Keep quiet." I was torn between feeling the ache caused by the removal of that hand from my breast, and the thrill of him silencing me this way.

Edward was having to hunch down awkwardly so his head didn't hit the ceiling. There wasn't space to undress much further, but as wild with lust as we were, this was a minor inconvenience … I just pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down a bit to allow me the access I craved, and he slipped a hand under my skirt. His long fingers pushed my panties to one side and dipped tentatively in my entrance.

"Wow, Bella, your pussy is so wet for me," he said. "You want me, don't you? I can't wait to fuck you."

My brain and my ovaries were going berserk, hearing the wicked things coming out of his mouth. He was right about me wanting him. I would have done anything he wanted right now; I didn't even care if anyone heard it. All that mattered was him and me. I used my hand between his thighs to show him everything I couldn't say. I curled my fingers around his thick cock and ran them up and down along its length.

He gave a quiet groan and breathed, "Fuck, baby, that feels so good. I'm so hard for you."

His fingers moved more decisively on me now ... teasing and stroking, sending delicious waves of pleasure through my body, but I was greedy for more. I instinctively started to buck against his hand, urgently trying to seek more friction.

Fuck ... his fingers felt amazing. My loud moan was only slightly dampened by his other hand, still over my mouth.

One of the other girls made a noise and turned over. I froze, scared. Edward calmly carried on gently touching me for several minutes — I couldn't find the will to stop him, despite the possibility that she'd heard us — and we didn't hear anything more after that. She couldn't have woken up.

"You must promise to stay silent," Edward said softly.

I nodded and murmured quietly against his hand in assent. He removed it from my mouth, pausing to offer the forefinger of his hand for me to suck. I complied, suggestively taking it in my mouth and grazing it with my teeth as he moved it in and out. Then he lowered the wet finger to swirl it around my swollen clit, whilst pushing another one inside of me. He added a second and began gliding them in and out. My body submitted totally to his control. I bit my bottom lip in an effort to keep quiet.

"Next time, it will be my cock," he whispered.

A thrill ran through me at this, and I was reminded that I was still holding it, so I began to move my hand up and down again, enjoying the proof of his own arousal as he touched me. I was rewarded by a gasp of breath from Edward and the rhythm of his fingers inside me building. I felt myself getting close, and tried to hold back from making a noise.

One more whisper in my ear from him was all it took to push me right over the edge.

"I want to make you come, Bella, right here in this room for everyone to hear."

I gasped and felt myself quivering and tightening around his fingers as the sparks of heat that had collected in my belly ignited in an intense climax.

"Fuck … so hot," he rasped out.

My hand had stilled again on his cock, fingers still curled around it, all of the energy knocked out of me. Edward stroked his hand over my breasts and down to my hip, then gently replaced my hand with his own to begin expertly stroking himself.

"I can —" I began, feeling guilty, but unsure I could rouse myself from my daze quite yet.

"Shh … do not worry. If you are okay with it?"

"Please … yes, I want you to," I murmured, wanting his climax almost as badly as I'd wanted my own. His fingers moved at a faster pace and he started breathing more heavily.

After a few minutes more he uttered, "Gonna come".

And then he did, in a warm spurt over my belly.

I awoke early, uncomfortable from having slept wrapped around Edward in the single bed, in a tangle of his long limbs with my short ones. I sat up to look around in the gentle daylight coming in through the thin curtains. Edward was still asleep, as was one of the other girls. The other two beds were empty now. Well, as long as the others hadn't woken and heard us last night, I could get over the embarrassment of them seeing Edward in my bed this morning. At least he'd pulled the duvet over us to cover up our semi-dressed state.

Perhaps we could still creep out without the final girl seeing. But more importantly, I wanted to see up-close what I could only feel last night. I lifted the cover a little, and ran my hand over the contours of his sculpted pecs, and down to his taut abdomen and the trail of hair disappearing into his boxer briefs. I reluctantly pulled my eyes away from that danger zone, and back up to his broad shoulders, to see the rest of that tattoo on his muscular upper arm. It was an intricate, black tribal design — I realised that the small circular symbol at the centre of the spiky pattern was a simple representation of a volleyball.

For the past few days, my schedule hadn't coincided with Edward's matches, so I'd watched lots of volleyball but didn't see him play. The men's matches were only on alternate days, the days in between being women's matches. I was lucky enough to watch South Korea play Brazil —according to Mike and Carlisle, Brazil was one of the top women's teams.

South Korea looked cool, in their hot-pant style tiny shorts and knee-high socks. The women were tall, too. Mike pointed out one particularly kick-ass Korean player, Kim Jiu, who apparently held records in the number of points won by any one player in the season, including the men. She held her otherwise unremarkable team together, managing to motivate them, as well as carrying the play almost single-handedly. In fact, we saw South Korea beat the supposedly superior Brazil 3–1.

I met up with Edward when I could. After a week into the Olympics, Poland had played three more matches, losing only once. They were notching up the points and, so far, keeping their loyal army of fans happy, even thrashing the Great British, host-nation team, in straight sets.

Today the final matches of the men's preliminary round were taking place. Poland was near the top of their table, so they were almost certain to go through to the quarter-finals regardless of the result today, but, of course, they still wanted to win. I was working the evening shift, and Poland's was the last match of the day. The previous one seemed to drag on forever … I was anxious to see him in action again. It was 10:30 p.m. by the time they took to the court. The Poles were dressed in bright blue today. I guessed their kit choice must depend on the other team's colours. It looked stunning on Edward.

He did his pre-game ritual again, putting his hand on the floor, and I resolved to ask him about it when I could.

Australia won the first set.

Edward was on the bench until he was called on during the second. The towering, sun-kissed Australian started play with a powerful serve, but Poland held their nerve, returning it with a dig, set and spike combination. Australia kept it in play and spiked it over the net. Edward was defending at the net with Jasper and Emmett and made the block, jumping up to pat the ball down over the net, winning the point. But he landed awkwardly, one foot twisting beneath him, and then crumpled to the floor. Players seemed to fall quite a lot in volleyball — sometimes diving to ensure they could get to the ball, even appearing to get knocked down by the ball sometimes — so the rest of the team disregarded him and congratulated each other as normal, though my eyes stayed on him. But when it became clear Edward wasn't getting up, some of his teammates ran over to him, concerned, and the referee blew his whistle to suspend play.

Several Polish team staff and a doctor rushed onto the court, surrounding him, so I couldn't see him anymore. They spoke to him for a minute and examined his leg and foot. The assessment seemed positive, as he was offered an arm on each side by Emmett and Jasper, to help him up onto his feet. He was standing fine, so they let go but stayed close. But then suddenly his face contorted in pain, his legs giving way under him, so he had to grab onto the nearest people around him to keep his balance. His hand was on one of the coaching staff, and Emmett bent down so Edward could put his other arm around his shoulder. Together they lifted Edward up, supporting his bent legs, to carry him off the court to one of the chairs on the sideline, the audience applauding to show him their support. I could practically feel his agony; it was written all over his face. The doctor got him to stretch out and raise his injured leg, and took off his shoe and sock to assess the damage. It seemed to be his ankle that was the problem.

Back on court, Edward had been substituted by another player, and the match had restarted. The attention of the crowd was off him now, but he still had several people around him, treating his ankle. It looked like they were applying ice packs, then they put a bandage on. He had his head in his hands; I wasn't sure if it was solely from the pain — he must have been frustrated at being pulled out of the game too, and maybe worried about how long it would take to heal.

I didn't want to get in the way of all the team staff looking after Edward, so I didn't manage to speak to him for the remaining half-hour of the match — which Poland was losing. I kept glancing over at him, sitting in his chair with his bound foot elevated … his face was ashen, knowing he was powerless to help his floundering team. I longed to go over and comfort him.

Poland did their best to claw back some of the points and stay in the match, claiming the third set, but their opponents proved too strong at the crucial moments. Finally Australia sealed the deal with a match point, making it 3–1, and it was all over. At least a loss didn't mean Edward's team was out of the tournament, I reminded myself … but would he be able to play again?

Emmett, Jasper and the rest walked slowly back from the court with looks of disbelief and numbness on their faces. Emmett stood silently with his teammates, while Jasper sat on the floor, legs stretched out, looking dejected. I saw an opportunity to go over to Edward; he was pretty much alone now, as the people around him had moved off to commiserate with the rest of the team over their loss.

"I'm sorry you lost ..." I said, awkwardly. "How badly are you injured?"

"My ankle is sprained … the doctor says that I must rest." He was fisting his hair in frustration. "I can't play next match, maybe even not after that, they are not sure yet how bad it is," Edward explained, with such a mournful look on his face.

I battled to inject some optimism into my voice. "You have to be positive. I'm sure if you rest it now, like the doctor says, you'll be back playing again really soon."

"I don't want to miss the quarter-finals. It could be my last chance to play at Olympics."

I remembered that the next match was the first of the knockout rounds. If Poland lost now, they'd be out of the tournament.

I wanted to be as supportive as I could, but I knew only too well how scary this felt … doing your very best, only for fate to intervene in the form of an injury. I realised that I finally wanted to unburden myself with Edward … to be open about my own Olympic past; maybe it could even help him get some perspective on his situation.

I hadn't talked to that many people about it in several years, except for my shrink and my family. Back in the US, I'd been pretty well-known, so of course the subject had come up with people. I'd moved to the UK in 2009 in part so that I could escape what had happened and make a new start for myself.

I put my hand on his shoulder, aiming at comforting him discreetly. Most of the audience was slowly dispersing from the arena, but all the team and staff were still around us. But when I felt him shiver at my touch, it made me ache. _Fuck what everyone else thinks_, I thought, _Edward needs me_. I sat on the chair next to him and put my arm around him.

"I haven't told you this before, but I was at the 2008 Olympics," I said.

"Really? You were volunteer at Beijing?" He perked up a little; maybe a distraction was what he needed. I hoped telling him the rest wasn't a bad idea. "I was there too, with the team. No medals for us that year though."

"No, not a volunteer. I was a competitor too … a gymnast, in fact."

He raised an eyebrow, maybe at the mental image of me in a leotard, but stayed quiet as I continued.

"I was on the US team until I injured my knee in the qualifying round at Beijing. I had to pull out of the Olympics, and it was so bad that it ended my career. Well, pretty much …. I carried on training for a year once I recovered, but with all the operations and the pain I kept having, I got pretty behind in my training and my knee was never quite the same. I lost all my confidence and my heart just wasn't in it anymore, so I quit completely."

"I'm so sorry for it, Bella. How did you hurt yourself?" He looked genuinely concerned for me, even though it was years ago now and might not have seemed important with his own injury to worry about.

"I tore some of the ligaments in my knee in a bad dismount from the vault." I closed my eyes.

I'd replayed the event so many times in my head after it first happened, but more recently I'd started to block it out and manage not to think of it. Now memories of the failed vault assaulted my mind … first as frozen snapshots: the fateful landing, horrified looks on the faces of people in the front row as I clutched my knee in pain. Gradually the snapshots pieced together into a home video of the whole thing in my head. It was a high-difficulty move, with two and a half twists. I'd managed it many times in training without any problems — I'm not sure what went wrong. Maybe the pressure got to me. I think my vault itself was fine, but as I landed, my leg felt odd, and I heard a loud pop. A searing pain radiating up from my knee made me lose balance, wobble and then fall to the ground. I remember my Coach rushing over, and then little else. My next memory was of being pushed out of the arena in a wheelchair.

"Bella? Are you okay?"

I pulled myself out of my thoughts and opened my eyes to meet his anxious gaze, as I felt him placing his hand on mine.

"That's actually why I'm here volunteering," I started to explain, sighing. "I was put on Gymnastics originally before they switched me to volleyball. My therapist suggested it, because I was having trouble —" I made air-quotes with my fingers "— 'moving on' and 're-establishing my identity' so he thought it would do me good to face up to things by being here and watching the Olympic Gymnastics. I'm not so sure I agree, though … I'm glad I got moved to volleyball. I think distraction is doing more for me than having to watch my old teammates competing."

"I can see that would be very hard," Edward said, pensively. "I'm glad you have told me … I'm worried how soon I can play again with this ankle, but I know it's not serious long-term."

I was glad if what I'd said could make him put today into perspective. Also that he'd know I knew a little of what he was feeling from my own experience, so hopefully, he'd let me be there for him if he needed it.

I think I'd done the right thing bringing it up. It felt good to get it off my chest. But then I remembered something to lighten the mood a little. "I was meaning to ask you, when you touch the floor at the start of the match, are you doing it for luck?"

He smiled a little sadly. "Yes, not that it did much good for me today. I have a few superstitions like that one — every player has his own. Though, most of us like to wear in our new jerseys before wearing them for a match. We say to 'sweat' them, like to wear for training first or something. A brand new, unworn one would be very bad luck." He smiled again at the thought, looking a little happier.

For now, Edward was under doctor's orders to rest the ankle as much as possible, so I met him at the door to his apartment block in the Olympic Village. He looked a sorry sight, on crutches, lifting his taped up ankle, so as not to put weight on it for long. His usually clean-shaven face had a dusting of scruffy stubble over it, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"They gave you crutches? Is it painful?" I asked.

"Not very bad. I can stand on it but I'm supposed to use them for walking, to rest it."

We took the elevator up, then sat on the lime green sofa in the empty lounge, staring at the blank TV. The others were all out training. I was happy that we'd get to spend a little more time together, though of course I wished it could be under different circumstances. While the injury wasn't serious in the long-term, and the pain didn't seem too bad, it didn't stop Edward from brooding over the very real possibility that his part in the Olympics was about to come to a sudden end.

I didn't know what to do … remembering how helpless he'd looked sitting on the sidelines after falling. Maybe it would be too frustrating and difficult for him to watch Poland play tomorrow — so I broke the silence to suggest him missing it and doing something with me instead, to distract him, going out in London perhaps.

He sighed heavily but insisted, "No … I have to be there to support the rest of the team. It will be hard for me, but that is what this is all about … we are a team."

"Okay, of course … I get that. I'll be there to watch it with you," I said, giving him a kiss, wishing I could soothe away his worries and make it all better. I touched his cheek, running my fingers down from the softer skin above to the rough, dark-blond stubble covering his chiselled jaw. Then I couldn't help myself from touching his dark pink lips. That seemed to awake something in him — a hint of the passion I'd seen in him previously. He groaned softly and closed his eyes. Some of the tension was gradually melting away, leaving his face softer.

His eyes fluttered open again, and he reached out to run his fingers through my hair, then leaned in and put his lips on mine, tasting me gently, exploring my mouth with his tongue.

We kissed and embraced on the small sofa, but soon needed more space.

"Come, let's go to my room," he said, grabbing his crutches. I followed down the corridor. Once inside the small, basic bedroom, he put the crutches down against the wall.

The stand-out feature amongst the plain pine furniture was the garish orange, blue and pink duvet covering the single bed. Each coloured square contained a picture of a different Olympic sport, and there was an 'inspirational' slogan printed in white lettering along one side.

"It looks like a kid's duvet!" I said, turning to Edward and giggling.

"I know, right? Not exactly stylish," Edward said. "The bed's comfortable though, and look..." he flipped the bottom section down, extending the bed, making it plenty long enough to accommodate his tall frame.

"Wow, that's a cool idea," I said, not having seen a bed like it before.

"Yeah, it's something they don't have in a hotel. It's good," he said.

He hadn't made the room feel much more like home than a hotel room, though. His large grey suitcase was tucked in a space designed for it under the bed, and there weren't many of his belongings around. Just one of his bright-red team jerseys hanging up over the wardrobe door. I walked over to it and picked it up, wanting to look at it properly. It had a large white number 3 on the front, with a little Polish flag to the right of that. Then his name "Cullenski" was printed in capitals across the back in white again, above another number 3.

I jumped as I felt the heat from Edward's body as he suddenly came up right behind me, putting one hand on each side of my waist. His smooth voice was insistent. "You should try it on. I want to see my number on you."

A thrill of anticipation ran through me, and I felt heat gathering between my legs.

He let his hands drop to his sides, and I turned to face him, recognising the urgent need in his expression, because I knew it must mirror my own desire. He took the jersey from me and watched as I took off the black top I was wearing. I felt his eyes appraising my chest in the dark blue bra I had on.

He bent down to plant a trail of kisses over my left shoulder and began edging one bra strap down over the other with his fingers.

"_Just_ the jersey," he said, undoing the clasp on my bra and taking it off. I felt exposed, but so incredibly turned on that I was almost unable to move. I was aching for him to touch me.

But he didn't. He just looked at me, taking in the pale curves of my breasts. I think I moaned in desperation, then I felt electricity from the slightest brush of his fingers near my belly, first undoing the button on my jeans, then unzipping the fly.

I regained some power in my limbs and moved to pull the damned jeans down my legs. I needed to be out of them and to feel his hands on my flesh … I couldn't take his tortuously slow pace any longer. I forgot any sense of modesty, totally caught up in my need, and stepped out of my panties too. He must be able to smell my obvious arousal now. I was entirely naked before him for the first time; meanwhile, he was still fully clothed.

He murmured something in Polish, "_najpiękniejsza_", then handed me the red number 3 jersey, which I put on. It was long on me, and loose, except over my boobs. I liked the feeling that came with wearing something of his, especially an item that meant so much, though my bare flesh underneath was still crying out to be touched. My nipples were painfully hard against the fabric. I looked up at him and noticed his pupils were dilated, making his eyes even more hypnotic than usual.

He motioned circles with his hand and said, "Show me, turn around."

I spun around slowly, so that my back was to him, excited by this possessive side to him.

He gave a raw, urgent groan. "Fuck, Bella … it's so sexy, seeing my name on you." At last, he grabbed my breasts from behind, then slowly ran his hands downward over my waist and hips; the contact felt delicious through the thin red material. He manoeuvred me forward a little, towards the pine chest of drawers, and with nowhere else to go, I bent forward to lean over it, putting my hands out in front of me for support. There was a mirror above the drawers, and my eyes fixed on the reflection of his tall body pressed up against mine. I could feel his hardness pressed against my back through our clothes.

I gasped as he slipped his hand under the jersey and roughly fingered my slick, exposed pussy. His fingers were a little cold, but the sensation was unbelievable, and I started to moan uncontrollably. His other hand was planted firmly on my butt cheek, grabbing at my flesh.

Then his voice was in my ear, cruelly taunting me. "Shall I fuck you this time? Do you want me to put my cock in you?"

"Yes! Oh — please, yes …." I begged shamelessly; my body was crying out for it.

He pulled away from me for a moment and I saw him in the mirror, undoing his belt and pulling off first his jeans and boxer briefs, then his top. He came up behind me again, his angular hipbone jutting into me. He spread my legs apart forcefully with his hand and stroked between them again, where I was hot and wet. He used my wetness to coat his fingers then rubbed them in delicious circles over my sensitive clit, making me whimper. Then he slid two fingers inside me as well and began pumping them in and out. The blood was pulsing there, making me hyper-aware of the sensations. I felt like I was steadily losing my mind.

After touching me like this until I was wild with desire, he suddenly pulled away again, leaving me almost crying in frustration. When he didn't return, I stood up and turned my head to see where he was. He'd walked over to the bedside table to pull out a condom. Well, a whole strip of them in fact.

"The organisers were giving all these out," he said with an exaggerated wink, holding the strip up and tearing one packet off. "I took, just in case ..."

I giggled, and walked over to him to stand by the bed. He was naked now, his thick, erect cock standing out proudly from his muscular body. I watched him tear open the packet and roll the condom on. He guided me down onto the bed so that I was lying on my back, and knelt at my feet on the bed with his legs apart. He lifted my legs up so they were spread wide, one over each of his, and pinned my ankles down with his strong hands. He lifted up the bottom of the red material covering me and traced his fingers softly across my belly and down to my inner thighs, barely skimming closer to where I ached for him, teasing until I was squirming and moaning.

Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, he lined himself up at my entrance and pushed inside, filling me. Then he began thrusting, looking down at me as he moved in and out. Seeing myself lying there, being fucked by this amazing man whilst wearing his red jersey, was sexy as hell. I craved more still though, even more sensation. Edward seemed to sense that. That dirty mouth of his made a return.

"It feels so fucking good, Bella … I want to make you come."

My body reacted instantly; I felt myself getting even wetter, just managing to bite out a, "Yes" in reply. He removed one of his hands from where it had been holding my ankle down, moving it to rub my clit, while he continued to thrust into me hard and fast, and my moaning turned into screams as I started to unravel completely, intense waves of pleasure washing over me.

Once I could think clearly, I felt Edward moving inside me again, gliding more gently at first but building up his pace so that he was pounding deliciously deep. I was moaning in time with his rhythm, my excitement building again.

His eyes were dark and his breathing was heavy.

Knowing that he was getting close too was enough to set me off, and I cried out, my inner walls fluttered and tightening around his cock.

"Oh God! Fuck." Edward thrust a couple more times then groaned roughly as he came.

He collapsed onto the bed to lie down beside me. Once we got our breath back, he twisted his body to face me and kissed me tenderly, whilst rubbing circles on my back with his hand.

Edward had drifted off to sleep, so after a little while I gently woke him by bringing him a vending machine coffee. It was an hour until the Poland–USA match was due to begin. Carlisle knew about our relationship now, and was fine with it, so he'd helped me swap my shifts so that I could be there. It had been unintentional, but putting Edward in this sleepy, blissed-out state was probably the best way for him to face the afternoon. For now, his fears and worries were pushed aside.

Unfortunately, Edward's good mood wasn't enough to protect him from the nervous start made by Poland. The USA won the first set decisively. They had some big-hitters on the team, and Poland seemed to be slow to adjust to that. The second set was looking much the same, with the USA leading by a wide margin. Edward's head was in his hands, too scared to watch his team, who looked likely to be going out. My loyalties were torn, but I found myself supporting Poland over my own home country. I cared about Edward, so I wanted what would make him happy. And his teammates had been so welcoming to me, an outsider, that I felt truly invested in their success … I'd seen how well they could play, so I was willing them to turn this around.

The Polish Coach called a technical time-out to give his team some vital encouragement, also substituting a player in the line up to tighten up the team's defence. Slowly, they caught up until they were only two points behind. They seemed to get their rhythm back, managing to win the set. From that point onwards, their confidence restored, Poland's game went from strength to strength and they sailed through to win the next two sets. They'd done it! They'd beaten the USA, to get through to the semi-finals! I gave Edward an excited hug and was so glad to see the mixture of delight and relief lighting up his face.

Edward's sprained ankle had healed nicely, so he had been able to build up his training again in time to play in one of the two semi-final matches. Whatever the result of this match, Poland would be through to an Olympic final. The winners of each semi would face each other to decide the Gold and Silver medals, whilst the losers would be competing for the Bronze.

I watched Poland triumph over Brazil 3–2, meaning they were through to the Gold medal match! If they could only keep up this level of play, maybe the Gold was really a possibility. Though there was still a tough game ahead: they were up against Russia in the final.

"Brazil is one of the top teams, so I'm really happy we have beaten them," Edward told me. "But Russia is even tougher. They have a lot of really big hitters. It's not over yet. We'll do our best, but even a silver medal would be amazing for us."

I was glad that he seemed pragmatic about it, though I hoped when it came down to it, he wouldn't be too torn if they didn't make the Gold.

Edward and his team had ramped up their focus for the Gold medal game tomorrow so much that I didn't get to see him. I understood why, of course, though it was hard; I was all too aware that our time together was running out. Tomorrow was the final day of the Olympics, and the Closing Ceremony was that evening. The team was staying in the Village tomorrow night, then the next day they'd be flying back to Poland.

The day of the finals, the atmosphere of the arena was electric; both teams were ready to play for their medal hopes and their countries. The start of the match was tough to watch. Poland lost the first two sets by a significant difference in points, overwhelmed by the Russian opposition's powerful game.

They must have been feeling the pressure, but they didn't lose focus. They fought to remain level with Russia during the third set and won it by a small margin. Edward had been substituted out some time ago, but came back early into the fourth set, rested, and raring to go once more. Now Poland's game really came into its own. I watched some beautiful dig, set and spike combinations between the players; they were working together flawlessly, predicting one another's moves and positions time after time. It reminded me of what Edward had said about team spirit; the Polish players were working as a single unit to stop their Gold medal hopes from slipping through their fingers. Their determination paid off and they dominated the fourth set, striking blow after blow to decisively secure a 2–2 tie and take the match into a fifth, deciding set.

Mike reminded me that in the fifth set it was the first to reach at least 15 points (with a two point lead) rather than the normal 25. It had been closely fought so far, but Russia was slightly in the lead. Their captain served an ace, taking them to 13–11, two points away from a Gold medal. But then the referee's whistle blew, causing the players to look around, mid-celebration, in confusion.

"He stepped over the line when he served, that's a foot foul," Mike explained.

The referee made hand signals to the server, who walked up to argue in frustration, but he remained firm, so now it was the Poles who were celebrating! The point was awarded in their favour, making the score 12–12.

I watched in a daze, as Edward's team won the next two points, securing themselves a match point. The crowd were going wild, singing and cheering. It was Emmett to serve now. He looked amazingly calm and sent a strong, solid serve over the net, starting off a nail-biting rally. I almost couldn't watch; they were so close. Several times, one of the teams looked as if they would be unable to return the ball to the opposition's side, but somehow pulled it off. Finally, Edward managed to use his blocking skills at the net, patting it down over the net, winning the point — and the match. That was it, they'd won the Gold! Unbelievable! I squealed excitedly, so happy for him.

The Polish team were instantly in a rapturous huddle, slapping and hugging each other. Everyone on the Polish crew: the coach, trainers, and players on the bench, all ran to join in the victory celebrations. I didn't think it would look that strange if I were to go on to the court. There were so many people, would anyone really notice? I looked over to Carlisle and he seemed to guess what I was thinking, giving me a subtle nod, so I ran over to Edward. Jasper was beside him and picked me up in the air in his excitement, with Edward and Emmett looking on in amusement. Once he'd put me down, I gave Edward a hug, full of feeling, sharing in his joy.

The match ended mid-afternoon. The victory ceremony happened soon after. It was quite something, seeing all twelve tall men on each of the three medal-winning teams — Poland, Russia and Brazil — walking into the arena to the Chariots of Fire music and stepping up onto the long podiums. Edward and the rest of the Polish team wore matching white trousers and white zipped up jackets with red trim and 'Polska' emblazoned in red letters across the front. The team came on smiling and waving, as they stepped onto the highest podium, in the middle. They were presented with their Gold medals, to the pure delight of the large Polish contingent in the crowd. I felt so immensely proud when the suit-clad official placed the Gold medal around Edward's neck, and his name was called out over the speakers. I only felt a tiny pang of sadness that I'd never been in his position, but now that time felt like worlds away. After the Polish national anthem had played, the team lifted their arms up in celebration and cheered. Then Edward looked over at me, holding his medal up with a beaming smile, and I waved back proudly.

The rest of the day flew by. I sat beside Edward to watch the music and dance performances of the Closing Ceremony, followed by fireworks. As with the rest of the team, he was tired, but on a high. We all partied and drank late into the night in a fitting celebration of the, perhaps, once in a lifetime moment for the team. They'd fought and won for their national pride and the top achievement in their sport. It felt special to be even a small part of it.

We'd mostly avoided the topic of what would happen after the Olympics, wanting to savour what we had without questioning it too much … something short-lived but undeniably special. Our lives had touched each other's and would leave lasting memories, but after the Olympics, they just didn't logically fit together. We lived in different countries and Edward had a busy calendar, travelling a lot.

But when the final day arrived, the airport goodbye just hours away, neither of us was quite ready to let go. We decided that we could try to stay in touch, and I would visit Edward in Poland as soon as I could get more time off work. Maybe it was just delaying the inevitable, but it seemed crazy to just let go of something with this much potential. After all, Edward had just won a Gold medal … nothing was impossible.


End file.
